The Game Is On
by ScarlettLikesUmbrellas
Summary: ...the game of getting back to Sherlock. John Watson doesn't sleep at night, and he spends life mulling over his emotions and regrets, the emotions and regrets of choosing to stay with a liar; is this living? Is it the right life? His Mary Watson, or Baker Street? The liar, or the sociopath? (Drama, fluff, a little angst. The story of a crossroads in John's life- more to come.)
1. The Liar, or the Sociopath?

John lay in bed; it was dark, cold, and the night air rang with the soft and familiar hum of the nightlife of London city. He lay there, next to the sleeping form of his wife.

His wife, Mary Watson.

Mary Watson; the liar.

The murderer.

He didn't know why, but, he had still loved her.

Had.

But he wasn't sure anymore.

Now, the hurt had begun to sink in. Yes, it was a little late, oh, only over three months after the Incident.

The incident where his wife had shot Sherlock.

The incident where she had let out all the lies, so many lies that all they could be labelled as was A lie- the lie that had been his life. He thought he had something going on, he really thought that he could have had a normal life. Well, as close to normal as you can get when your best friend had (supposedly) died and then came back only to reveal that practically everyone John knew was in on the secret except John himself.

But then, oh then, he found out he had been caught up in yet another lie, by the one he loved, by the one he had chosen to commit his life to.

_Once again._

Only, this time, it wasn't for him, it wasn't for his safety, it wasn't even for his love.

It had been for herself.

And her own love.

But, he had forgiven her, and he had been confident in his decisions; but now he was not so sure.

He had been lying awake at night, thinking, thinking about his current position in life; and it wasn't where he wanted to be. Oh no, not anymore. At first he had wanted to stay with Mary, he had wanted to try again- but that was because of love. He had still been in love with her.

But now, he was not so sure.

Not so sure that he wanted her.

The liar.

The liar that he no longer loved.

He was a liar.

A liar to himself, telling his own emotions that he still loved her, that he still loved his Mary Watson.

_This isn't living, this is balancing, this is walking on eggshells around my own delicately balanced heart, _John began thinking to himself.

_I need to let go._

_I need to do what I want._

_I have to stop wasting away my life, I have to be able to sleep at night, rather than sitting awake and telling myself that it will _all _work out._

_Because obviously it won't._

_Not after almost four months of telling myself that it will all work out._

_This is not where I want to be._

_I want it to be how it used to be._

_In Baker Street._

_The game being on._

_With Sherlock._

_Just me and him, against the rest of the world…_

At these thoughts John sprang up.

Quite literally, out of bed.

And he just sat there, back straight, looking blankly forward, lost in deep and repetitive thoughts,

For quite a while.

Should he really do this?

'Bloody hell,' he eventually muttered to himself, springing up out of bed, grabbing his clothes, packing a back, writing a (rather scribbly) note, throwing on his coat, and before John knew it he was outside, out in the street.

Without his key.

Out to go back there.

Back home.

Back to Baker Street.

Back to Sherlock.

The game was on.

The game of getting back to Sherlock.

The one who desereved him more.

The one that he deserved more.

The one that he never gave up on, and the one that never gave up on him.

The game was on.


	2. 221B

John sped-walk, almost ran, through the (still busy), noisy and colourful streets of night-time London. All around him roaring cars soared across wet tarmac, smart business peoples smart shoes clopped smartly against smart paving, and the sounds of many different kinds of exotic smells and music emanated from each and every restaurant and shop John passed. The rain also added its own gentle notes such as the pitter-patter of droplets against umbrellas and rooftops, and the gentle taps it made as it collided against the shops windows and doors. Altogether this created the gentle, yet overpowering, hum of the orchestra that was the city of London.

And, as John waded through the thick and flowing streets of the city, he was thinking, thinking hard on whether his decisions were right, whether he should go back, what would he say to Mary, what about their marriage, the baby, his new life, his promises, his-

No.

No longer did John Watson want to be living a doubting life; no longer would he want to have made-up emotions, half-emotions that weren't quite complete.

He couldn't stand this any longer.

Pretending to be in love.

Pretending to be _happy._

He just wanted Sherlock, wanted Sherlock back, for it to be as it had been before-

Him and the consulting detective, against the rest of the world.

It was these thoughts that kept John going each and every time he stopped in the middle of the pavement, or turned to look behind him in the hope of seeing where he had left from, or each time he half-raised his arm in the hope of catching a taxi back. He felt like a reckless madman, he felt like a betrayer, and, above all, he felt guilt.

But why?

She was the one that lied, it wasn't his fault.

He had to go on.

He had to use his heart, not his brain-

That was Sherlock's job.

_Tap tap._

_'_Come in, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock called from his usual position on the armchair; laid back, hands in a steeple, eyes squeezed shut in concentration, right sleeve rolled up to reveal two, no _three _nicotine patches. It is too obvious to point out that he is on a case.

'Not…Mrs Hudson,' said the steady voice of John Watson.

This caused Sherlock's eyelids to snap open. This was unexpected. It was not often that anything unexpected, unpredictable happened to the great Sherlock Holmes. It was not often that, at midnight, as he was deep in concentration on a case, his blogger would turn up, soaked to the bone, knock on the door, and then speak in that steady voice of his. Though John most certainly did not _look _steady.

His eyes were dark with shady rings of purple, his clothes so soaked that they could have been his skin, his eyes bloodshot, and his whole body trembling- not just with the cold. He was filled with emotion, but not the usual sort. He looked like he hadn't slept for years.

'John!' Sherlock said; the usually emotionless tone tinged with concern, the usual still-as-a-statue 'case posture' unfolding without a second thought. He advanced across the room, not breaking eye-contact with his drenched blogger and reached out to put a comforting hand on the shorter man's shoulder.

But, just as Sherlock did so he was hit with more surprise as John lightly wrapped his arms around him; then proceeding to tighten the embrace, almost as if he were hanging onto him for dear life. Sherlock, surprisingly, delicately returned the gesture, still wearing his usual focused face as he tenderly wrapped his arms around the trembling mess of John. There was not much else that he could do. He then, gently and quietly speaking past John's ear and over his shoulder, said-

'What happened?'

Silence.

'John?'

'A lot. A lot is happen_ing_.'

'Is this one of those things that is better gone through in the morning?'

'Mm hmm.'

The two then slowly unwrapped their embrace, and just stood, looking into each other's eyes- John's darker, usually filled with emotion, but now just looked filled with fatigue. Sherlock's lighter- bright and clever, filled with curiosity, yet unusually tinged with emotion. Tinged with concern, worry, and perhaps even a little sorrow. He could not stand to see his usually smiling and open best friend like this.

'Sherlock, I was wondering if I…perhaps I…could stay here for the night? I'm sorry, I just…'

'It's O.K, John,' Sherlock said, seeing the other man was struggling. He did, after all, look m_ore _than half asleep. 'Though we've thrown out your old bed, so…'

'I'll take the sofa.'

'Oh, there'll be no need for that. Not when you're in _this _state. You take my bed, I'll take the sofa,' Sherlock smiled just a little as he said this- he knew that this case would probably not allow him any time for sleep anyway, and, by the looks of things, John seemed to need a _lot._

'You sure, Sherlock?' John was surprised at the sudden wave of kind emotion from the Consulting Detective; it must be the awful state that he was currently in bringing this out.

'Yes, of course. Oh, and you'll be wanting to change out of whatever you were once wearing, and also the shower _is _free. My clothes haven't moved anywhere since you left-'

'-I've brought my own; they're in the hall-'

'-and nor has the teabags or kettle, but you already know that, and- what? You did?'

'Yes, they're in the hall,'

Sherlock paused. John never used to bring an overnight bag when he would storm out of their flat to sleep at some girlfriends for whatever reason (usually, no _always _Sherlock), and before he was thinking that it was just a sort of reversed situation like that. But no…this case must be different. Interesting…John was planning on staying…for more than just the night…

Sherlock was beginning to grow concerned.

What could possibly be happening to John Watson?

John lay in the dark- a much more relaxing dark. The warm and comfortable dark, the sort of dark that soothes you to sleep, not provokes you. He lay between warm, yet fresh sheets, scented with the familiar smell of Sherlock- he inhaled it in, it was comforting and lulling, he inhaled it in, remembering the times before when he had slept here, lived here, those times before…

…before the Fall.

And, just before he drifted of to sleep, to sleep much better than he had in weeks, John thought out the situation, the situation he would have to tell Sherlock in the morning. He put it in steps in his mind, unravelled the whole ugly thing into a clear enough list, which would have gone something like-

Sherlock falls.

John feels trauma, depression, and above all, heartbreak.

He feels as if he cannot go on.

And then, just when all hope seems lost, something revives him, picks him up.

Not something, but somebody.

Mary. His Mary.

He loved her so much.

And then Sherlock comes back into his life- but he loves Mary now, and truly does, enough so they get a child.

He is happier than ever before- he loves her enough to get married.

At least, until that day.

The day when he found out that she was a liar.

It all goes downhill.

He wishes he'd never loved her.

He wishes it had never happened.

He still loves Sherlock, he always has, but he thought he had been gone forever, so he'd tried to move on, but, alas, what had all of that resulted in…only more heartbreak, more lies.

He wants his old life back.

But...there's one thing stopping him, one thing that is making him keep a firm grip on the reins-

The child.

_Their _child.

Their child created from a love and a life that he had thought to had been real.


	3. With you

**A.N- I am very sorry to those that are following for the delay- I did try writing a few times throughout that wait, but I am sorry for I could not seem to write anything until recently due to writer's block. I am (obviously) over it now, so please do enjoy!**

John awoke to the strong smell of sulphur, emanating from the kitchen.

What?

Why could he smell sulphur?

Although vile, the strong scent was a little nostalgic for John Watson; it reminded him of when he used to wake up in Sherlock's, no _their _flat, which would have the scent lingering from time to time- a result of Sherlock's endless 'experiments'.

But why did his, John Watson's home, have the smell?

Strange, perhaps he was still dreaming.

It was then that John rolled over, allowing his pupils access to the morning light (muffled by the window's curtain), that he realised he in fact _was _in Sherlock's flat. Their old flat.

It was this realisation that let go of the trigger in his mind, allowing the memories and thoughts of last night, that dramatic night, to flood back to him.

He had run away.

A grown man, run away.

Back to Sherlock.

Who he now owed an explanation.

Ah, he must've been thinking sharply last night, for this time, this time he had set himself up in a situation that there was no getting out of- finally, this was the day that he would have no choice but to pluck up to courage, and to finally speak, speak and let all that he had been holding inside of himself out.

'Jesus,' he muttered, heaving himself out of the warm, comforting covers- wishing he could be beneath them forever, just hiding from the world, inhaling the familiar scent of Sherlock, being in the knowledge that he was safe here, beneath Sherlock's covers, in Sherlock's bed-

-But he had to do this.

It was a decision he had made for himself, for his life and _by god _was he sticking to it.

'Morning,' John said, passing Sherlock (in his chair, intensely staring, hands steepled, at his laptop).

'Morning,' Sherlock muttered back, not taking his eyes of the screen, and ferociously beginning to type.

'So…' John said. 'I have some things to tell you…'

'Clearly.'

'Sherlock, this is a little important,'

'Clearly,'

'So I would appreciate it if you'd look at me,'

'Once we're at the table, yes,'

John glanced to the table.

It was shocking.

_Very _shocking.

'You, um…O.K. , Sherlock,' John spoke, eyes not leaving the table- for, the table of 221B Baker Street had been _laid, and it hadn't been done by him or Mrs Hudson. _'Um…thank you, yes…thank you.'

'I may not show it, but I am perfectly capable of feeding myself,' and, with that (and a smile), Sherlock rose to sit opposite his blogger, the usual computing expression tinged with a little warmth, as the two men shared eye contact- both now with renewed, bright eyes, basking in the sight of each other; it was like overnight somebody had pushed the refresh button.

John cleared his throat. 'Its good breakfast, Sherlock,' he gave a smile. 'Yes, it's very…very good.'

The two then continued to eat in silence for a few moments.

'So, um…' John began- he felt his heart steadily begin to rise, though it was quiet and at the back of his chest, almost like a warning call for the flood of emotions that he knew were about to spill. 'Last night…'

Sherlock simply nodded, his palms against each other, hiding away his mouth and nose- though his eyes were still visible, and still tinged with that unusual sample of emotion and feeling as it had done since he had seen John in the state he had been in last night- it had opened up something, opened up something in order for John to pour the truth into him.

'Look, I've been thinking. Thinking about a lot- I mean, the way I am now, the way it's been since the…the…' they both knew what John was trying to say. They both knew why he couldn't say it. They just moved on from the sentence, acknowledging what the gap that was there meant, acknowledging the emotions behind it. John was at breaking point as it was; he didn't need the harassment to say things that he wasn't comfortable with saying adding to this.

'It's O.K, John,' Sherlock said, just lightly brushing his hand across the top of John's own (though such a simple gesture sent John's heart racing, yet calmed and emptied his mind by thousands simultaneously), 'I know,' and these words the consulting detective almost whispered, slowly pulling his graceful hands back to himself, and as he did so watching the pupils of his best friends dark eyes dilute and widen into his gaze.

He had taken John's pulse.

It was beating at That rate.

The same rate he had felt when he had taken her pulse- the woman's.

Sherlock kept their deep gaze locked- he could deduce so much from John's eyes alone. They were eyes that said 'help', eyes that had been through heartbreak, eyes that…

…eyes that were desperate, desperate for what they were looking into to be what helps.

They were looking into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock had deduced the situation; heartbreak, looking for help- but what he didn't have was the details.

This time he wouldn't dare look for them.

He wanted to hear this from John, not himself.

So Sherlock closed his eyes.

And waited.

There was silence.

And then, after that short period of only a few moments, that had somehow felt like one of longest, John continued.

'Yes, the way it's been since then- it's been very different. I was, so alone, and I…I just needed something, _anything_ but what I was feeling then. So that's what I found. She made me smile again- smile like I hadn't smiled in what felt like a very long time. I loved her, loved her enough to get married. To get a child. I was happy again, and you were back, and I thought that my life had taken a new turn, I thought that was how it was supposed to be, I thought…' the strong army doctor was almost at breaking point, the stress of months was finally being taken off, and god was it tearing him apart- he felt the tears hanging loosely onto his bottom eyelids, dangerously clinging loosely with their slippery forms; John squeezed his eyes shut to hold them in. But all this did was anger them. For, as he finally dared to open them again, the tears ran freely down his cheeks, with no intention of stopping. John didn't open his mouth, he didn't _want _to, for he knew that all he could manage if he did was to pathetically weep.

'John,' Sherlock said, placing a hand on the other man's shoulder and squeezing it comfortably. 'It's alright, you don't need to continue- I understand,' and as he said that, the consulting detective stood, chair scraping meticulously slowly along the kitchen floor as he rose, to stand by John, loop his own arm beneath his and slowly pull the shorter man into a light embrace. Sherlock gently stroked John's back. John hid his face in Sherlock's shoulder so as to supress the silent tears.

They just stood like this for the required time, the required time for the small and sudden flood of tears to finish.

It was now 9:30pm. John was now sufficiently calmed and relaxed, and the two men sat- not on their normal chairs, once facing opposite each other in front of the mantelpiece- but on the sofa, T.V switched on, lights dimmed, curtains drawn as they sat comfortably with their tea, beneath the duvet that Sherlock had previously slept under. It was crumpled and warm, and smelt comfortably of Sherlock.

The night was especially cold, so the two could both say that they were glad to be sat close together on the sofa; their legs touched but they didn't mind, and John was in his warmest pyjamas, as was Sherlock. The movie was light-hearted and slightly comedic. The fire crackled and sparked behind its rustic grate.

But, in order to really embrace the comforting atmosphere, the detective and the doctor both knew that they would have to rid the room of its elephant (at least, this time, not so literally).

And so it was Sherlock that made the first move towards pushing it out of their atmospheric evening, because ,at the end of the day, it was better sooner than later.

'John?' he said gently, in order to break the sleepy doctor out of his trance as he soaked in the warmth of the fireplace and glow of the telly.

'Hm, Sherlock?' John replied, turning to smile gently at the consulting detective.

'I um…I mean…how long is it that your planning on staying?' Sherlock began, feeling as though he were treading on eggshells around his Watson's heart. 'Not that you have to say now,' he continued, looking away quickly.

'No, Sherlock, it's fine,' John said, sounding surprisingly composed and even a little relieved. 'I think that, discussing it now would be…good,'

Sherlock then turned back and gave John a small a fleeting smile; signalling his readiness and support.

'I guess I just…want to hang here until, until my...child…' John trailed off, not quite sure how to put this in words, as well as being shocked to feel the words roll off of his own tongue- somehow it made the situation seem…much more real to the doctor.

'If that's O.K,'

'Of course,'

_Silence, and the crackling of the fire._

'I just want…time to recover. Time to think this all out. Time…'

'…with you,' the consulting detective uttered, as he gently snaked his arms around the (gaping) army doctor, pulling him to lie on his back on top of his own chest.

There were fireworks on the telly.

Later on, John had rolled onto his stomach so as the two slept chest to chest throughout the night.

(The next day, Mrs Hudson went to bring the boys tea, and almost dropped it-

-John's chair was back.)


End file.
